
CJassJEB^igfl 

Book .._iOA 




Bust of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



Made from life by William Wetmore Story, 
Vmn in Weliesley College. Welleslev '. Mass 



A 






I D 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTU- 
GUESE 

1847-1850 



882797 
1M9 



bonnets from tije ^ortugueae 



x 



i. 

THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 
sung 



Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 
for years, 
Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, 
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; 
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, — 
"Guess now who holds thee?" — "Death," I said. 

But, there, 
The silver answer rang, — "Not Death, but Love." 

_ . 




bonnets from tty pottu^um 



n. 

UT only three in all God's universe 

Have heard this word thou hast said, 
— Himself, beside 
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied 
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse 
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce 
My sight from seeing thee, — that if I had died, 
The deathweights, placed there, would have signified 
Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is worse 
From God than from all others, O my friend! 
Men could not part us with their worldly jars, 
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend; 
Our hands would touch for all the mountain bars: 
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end, 
We should but vow the faster for the stars. 



[6] 



*3>ottnetg from tlje pottu%um 



in. 

aNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely Heart! 
Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
Our ministering two angels look surprise 
On one another, as they strike athwart 
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art 
A quest for queens to social pageantries, 
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes 
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part 
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do 
With looking from the lattice-lights at me, 
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through 
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? 
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew, — 
And Death must dig the level where these agree. 



[7] 



^>omtet$ from ttye Portuguese 



IV. 

^^^^HOU hast thy calling to some palace-floor, 
B J Most gracious singer of high poems! 

^&*^ where 

The dancers will break footing, from the care 
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. 
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor 
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear 
To let thy music drop here unaware 
In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
Look up and see the casement broken in, 
The bats and owlets builders in the roof! 
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
Hush, call no echo up in further proof 
Of desolation! there's a voice within 
That weeps ... as thou mufct sing . . . alone, 
aloof. 



[8] 



^>0tmet$ from ti&e J&ottuguege 



XLIFT my heavy heart up solemnly, 
As once Electra her sepulchral urn, 
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn 
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see 
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me, 
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn 
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn 
Could tread them out to darkness utterly, 
It might be well perhaps. But if instead 
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow 
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head, 
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so, 
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred 
The hair beneath. Stand farther off then! go. 



[9] 



^onnetjs from t^e Portuguese 



6f 



VI. 

'O from me. Yet. I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Never- 
more 

Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I forbore — 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 



[10] 



^omtetg from t^e Portuguese 

VII. 

^^^^^HE face of all the world is changed, I 
M J think, 

^^^ Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 

soul 
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole 
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, 
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole 
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole 
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, 
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. 
The names of country, heaven, are changed away 
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; 
And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yes- 
terday, 
(The singing angels know) are only dear 
Because thy name moves right in what they say. 



^onnetg from t^e pwtuguege 



w 



VIII. 

HAT can I give thee back, O liberal 
And princely giver, who hast brought the 
gold 

And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, 
And laid them on the outside of the wall 
For such as I to take or leave withal, 
In unexpected largesse? am I cold, 
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold 
High gifts, I render nothing back at all? 
Not so; not cold, — but very poor instead. 
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run 
The colours from my life, and left so dead 
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done 
To give the same as pillow to thy head. 
Go farther! let it serve to trample on. 



[12] 



bonnets from t^e Portuguese 



IX. 

CAN it be right to give what I can give ? 
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears 
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 
years 
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live 
For all thy adjurations? O my fears, 
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers, 
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve, 
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must 
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas! 
I will not soil thy purple with my dust, 
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass, 
Nor give thee any love — which were unjust. 
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass. 



[13] 



^onnetjs from u)e pottu$um 




ET, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed 
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is 
bright, 

Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light 
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed: 
And love is fire. And when I say at need 
/ love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee — in thy 

sight 
I stand transfigured, glorified aright, 
With conscience of the new rays that proceed 
Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low 
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures 
Who love God, God accepts while loving so. 
And what I feel, across the inferior features 
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show 
How that great work of Love enhances Nature's. 

[14] 



bonnets from t^e povtmum 




XI. 

ND therefore if to love can be desert, 
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale 
As these you see, and trembling knees 
that fail 
To bear the burden of a heavy heart, — 
This weary minstrel-life that once was girt 
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale 
A melancholy music, — why advert 
To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain 
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place! 
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain 
From that same love this vindicating grace, 
To live on still in love, and yet in vain, — 
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face. 



[15] 



£>omtetj8 from t^e Portuguese 



XII. 

XNDEED this very love which is my boast, 
And which, when rising up from breast 
to brow, 
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow 
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost, — 
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, 
I should not love withal, unless that thou 
Hadst set me an example, shown me how, 
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were 

crossed, 
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak 
Of love even, as a good thing of my own: 
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, 
And placed it by thee on a golden throne, — 
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) 
Is by thee only, whom I love alone. 



[16] 



^onnetg from tye Portuguese 




XIII. 

ND wilt thou have me fashion into speech 
The love I bear thee, finding words 
enough, 

And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough, 
Between our faces, to cast light on each ? — 
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
My hand to hold my spirit so far off 
From myself — me — that I should bring thee proof 
In words, of love hid in me out of reach. 
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
Commend my woman-love to thy belief, — 
Being that I stand unwon, however wooed, 
And rend the garment of my life, in brief, 
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude, 
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief. 



C17] 



^onnetjs from t^e Portuguese 



XIV. 



X 



F thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
"I love her for her smile — her look — her 



way 
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" — 
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so 

wrought, 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — 
A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 



[18] 




^omtetg from t^e ^ortuguege 



XV. 

CCUSE me not, beseech thee, that I wear 
Too calm and sad a face in front of thine; 
For we two look two ways, and cannot 
shine 
With the same sunlight on our brow and hair. 
On me thou lookest with no doubting care, 
As on a bee shut in a crystalline; 
Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine, 
And to spread wing and fly in the outer air 
Were most impossible failure, if I strove 
To fail so. But I look on thee — on thee — 
Beholding, besides love, the end of love, 
Hearing oblivion beyond memory; 
As one who sits and gazes from above, 
Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 



[19] 



^omtetg from t^e fBottuguege 




XVI. 

ND yet, because thou overcomest so, 
Because thou art more noble and like a 
king, 

Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling 
Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow 
Too close against thine heart henceforth to know 
How it shook when alone. Why, conquering 
May prove as lordly and complete a thing 
In lifting upward, as in crushing low! 
And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword 
To one who lifts him from the bloody earth, 
Even so, Beloved, I at last record, 
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth* 
I rise above abasement at the word. 
Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth. 



[20] 




^omtetg from tye pottuqum 



XVII. 

Y poet, thou canst touch on all the notes 
God set between His After and Before, 
And strike up and strike off the general 
roar 
Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats 
In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
Of medicated music, answering for 
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour 
From thence into their ears. God's will devotes 
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine. 
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use ? 
A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine 
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse ? 
A shade, in which to sing — of palm or pine? 
A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose. 



[21] 




bonnets from t^e ^ortuguege 



XVIII. 

NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, 
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully, 
I ring out to the full brown length and say 
"Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; 
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, 
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 
As girls do, any more: it only may 
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, 
Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral- 
shears 
Would take this first, but Love is justified, — 
Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years, 
The kiss my mother left here when she died. 



F22] 



^otmetg from t^e Portuguese 



XIX. 

^I^^^HE soul's Rialto hath its merchandise; 
I J I barter curl for curl upon that mart, 

^™^ And from my poet's forehead to my heart 
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, — 
As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes 
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart 
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counter- 
part, . . . 
The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise, 
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black! 
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, 
I tie the shadows safe from gliding back, 
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth; 
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack 
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death. 



[23] 



^onnctjs from tye Portuguese 




XX. 

V 

ELOVED, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago, 
What time I sat alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink 
No moment at thy voice, but, link by link, 
Went counting all my chains as if that so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus I dank 
Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech, — nor ever cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white 
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. 



[24] 




bonnets from t^e pottut^um 

XXI. 

'AY over again, and yet once over again, 
That thou dost love me. Though the 
word repeated 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song/' as thou dost treat it 
Remember, never to the hill or plain, 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed. 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 
Cry, "Speak once more — thou lovest!" Who can 

fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, 
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 

year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll 
The silver iterance! — only minding, Dear, 
To love me also in silence with thy soul. 

[*5l 



^omtetg from t^e ^ottuguege 



XXII. 

^"w^HEN our two souls stand up erect and 
■ 1 strong, 

^*^ Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and 

nigher, 
Until the lengthening wings break into fire 
At either curved point, — what bitter wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mounting higher, 
The angels would press on us and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth, Beloved, — where the unfit 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day, 
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it. 



[26] 



bonnets from t^e Portuguese 



XXIII. 

XS it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing 
mine? 
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine 
Because of grave-damps falling round my head ? 
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine — 
But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine 
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. 
Then, love me, Love! look on me — breathe on me! 
As brighter ladies do not count it strange, 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange 
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee! 



[27] 



&cmntt$ from t^e Portuguese 



XXIV. 

HET the world's sharpness, like a clasping 
knife, 
Shut in upon itself and do no harm 
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm, 
And let us hear no sound of human strife 
After the click of the shutting. Life to life — 
I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm, 
And feel as safe as guarded by a charm 
Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife 
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still 
The lilies of our lives may reassure 
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible 
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer, 
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill. 
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor. 



[28] 



^omtetjg from tye j£ottuguege 




XXV. 

HEAVY heart, Beloved, have I borne 
From year to year until I saw thy face, 
And sorrow after sorrow took the place 
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn 
As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn 
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace 
Were changed to long despairs, till God's own grace 
Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn 
My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring 
And let it drop adown thy calmly great 
Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing 
Which its own nature doth precipitate, 
While thine doth close above it, mediating 
Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate. 



[*>i 



^otmetg from tye p>ovtu$am 

XXVI. 

X LIVED with visions for my company 
Instead of men and women, years ago, 
And found them gentle mates, nor 
thought to know 
A sweeter music than they played to me. 
But soon their trailing purple was not free 
Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow, 
And I myself grew faint and blind below 
Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come — 

to be, 
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts, 
Their songs, their splendours (better, yet the same, 
As river-water hallowed into fonts), 
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame 
My soul with satisfaction of all wants: 
Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to 
shame. 

[30] 



^otmetg from tty pottn^um 






XXVII. 

Y own Beloved, who hast lifted me 

From this drear flat of earth where I was 
thrown, 

And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown 
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully 
Shines out again, as all the angels see, 
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own, 
Who earnest to me when the world was gone, 
And I who looked for only God, found thee! 
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad. 
As one who stands in dewless asphodel 
Looks backward on the tedious time he had 
In the upper life, — so I, with bosom-swell, 
Make witness, here, between the good and bad, 
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well. 



[31] 



bonnet from t^e Portuguese 






XXVIII. 

'Y letters! all dead paper, mute and white! 
And yet they seem alive and quivering 
Against my tremulous hands which loose 
the string 
And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 
This said, — he wished to have me in his sight 
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring 
To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, 
Yet I wept for it! — this, . . . the paper's light . . . 
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed 
As if God's future thundered on my past. 
This said, / am thine — and so its ink has paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too fast. 
And this . , . O Love, thy words have ill availed 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last! 



[32] 



^>onmt0 from t^e Portuguese 



XXIX. 

^"w ^ THINK of thee! — my thoughts do twine 

and bud 
^ ""^ About thee, as wild vines, about a tree, 
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see 
Except the straggling green which hides the wood. 
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood 
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee 
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly 
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should, 
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare, 
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee 
Drop heavily down, — burst, shattered, everywhere! 
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee 
And breathe within thy shadow a new air, 
I do not think of thee — I am too near thee. 



[33] 



^oraretjg from tyz Portuguese 



XXX. 

XSEE thine image through my tears to-night, 
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How 
Refer the cause? — Beloved, is it thou 
Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte 
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite 
May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow, 
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow, 
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight, 
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's Amen. 
Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all 
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when 
Too vehement light dilated my ideal, 
For my soul's eyes? Will that light come again 
As now these tears come — falling hot and real? 



[34] 




bonnets from tye Portuguese 



XXXI. 

HOU comest! all is said without a word. 
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do 
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble 
through 
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred 
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred 
In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue 
The sin most, but the occasion — that we two 
Should for a moment stand unministered 
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close, 
Thou dovelike help! and, when my fears would rise, 
With thy broad heart serenely interpose: 
Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies 
These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those, 
Like callow birds left desert to the skies. 



[35] 



^orntetg from t^e pottugam 



XXXII. 

^^^■^HE first time that the sun rose on thine oath 
^ J To love me, I looked forward to the moon 
^™^ To slacken all those bonds which seemed 
too soon 
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. 
-Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe; 
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one 
For such man's love! — more like an out-of-tune 
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth 
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste, 
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. 
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float 
'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced, — 
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat. 



[36] 




bonnets from t^e J&ortuguege 



XXXIII. 

ES, call me by my pet-name! let me hear 
The name I used to run at, when a child, 
From innocent play, and leave the cow- 
slips piled, 
To glance up in some face that proved me dear 
With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear 
Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled 
Into the music of Heaven's undefiled, 
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, 
While I call God — call God! — So let thy mouth 
Be heir to those who are now exanimate. 
Gather the north flowers to complete the south, 
And catch the early love up in the late. 
Yes, call me by that name, — and I, in truth, 
With the same heart, will answer and not wait. 



[37] 



^onnetjs from t^e Portuguese 



XXXIV. 

^■r^ITH the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee 
W 1 As those, when thou shalt call me by my 

^*^ name — 

Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same, 
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy? 
When called before, I told how hastily 
I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game, 
To run and answer with the smile that came 
At play last moment, and went on with me 
Through my obedience. When I answer now, 
I drop a grave thought, break from solitude; 
Yet still my heart goes to thee — ponder how — 
Not as to a single good, but all my good! 
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow 
That no child's foot could run fast as this blood. 



[38] 



^>omtet0 from t^e &ovtu$um 



XXXV. 

XF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing and the common 
kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, 
When I look up, to drop on a new range 
Of walls and floors, another home than this ? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ? 
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried, 
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove; 
For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. 
Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide, 
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 



[39] 



^omtetg from t^e pottixqpw 



w 



XXXVI. 

HEN we met first and loved, I did not build 
Upon the event with marble. Could it 
mean 

To last, a love set pendulous between 
Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled, 
Distrusting every light that seemed to gild 
The onward path, and feared to overlean 
A finger even. And, though I have grown serene 
And strong since then, I think that God has willed 
A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . . 
Lest these enclasped hands should never hold, 
This mutual kiss drop down between us both 
As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold. 
And Love, be false! if be, to keep one oath, 
Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold. 



[40] 



^otmetg from tye povtu$uz$t 



XXXVII. 

eARDON, oh, pardon, that my soul should 
make, 
Of all that strong divineness which I 
know 
For thine and thee, an image only so 
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. 
It is that distant years which did not take 
Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, 
Have forced my swimming brain to undergo 
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake 
Thy purity of likeness and distort 
Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit: 
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, 
His guardian sea-god to commemorate, 
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort 
And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. 

[41] 



^orntetg from tye Portuguese 



XXXVIII. 

HIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
write; 
And ever since, it grew more clean and white, 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, list," 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed! 
That was the chrism of love, which love's own 

crown, 
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, 
I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." 



[42] 



^onnetg from ti&e Portuguese 



© 



XXXIX. 

ECAUSE thou hast the power and own'st 

the grace 
To look through and behind this mask 

of me 
(Against which years have beat thus blanchingly 
With their rains), and behold my soul's true face, 
The dim and weary witness of life's race, — 
Because thou hast the faith and love to see, 
Through that same soul's distracting lethargy, 
The patient angel waiting for a place 
In the new Heavens, — because nor sin nor woe, 
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood, 
Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, 
Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, — 
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so 
To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good! 



[43] 



^omtetg from t^e ^ortuguege 

XL. 

OH, yes! they love through all this world of 
ours! 
I will not gainsay love, called love for- 
sooth. 
I have heard love talked in my early youth, 
And since, not so long back but that the flowers 
Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and 

Giaours 
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth 
For any weeping. Polypheme's white tooth 
Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers, 
The shell is over-smooth, — and not so much 
Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate 
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such 
A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait 
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to 

touch, 
And think it soon when others cry "Too late." 

[44] 



^>omtetg from tye Portuguese 



XLI. 

X THANK all who have loved me in their 
hearts, 
With thanks and love from mine. Deep 
thanks to all 
Who paused a little near the prison-wall 
To hear my music in its louder parts 
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's 
Or temple's occupation, beyond call. 
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall 
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's 
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot 
To hearken what I said between my tears, . . . 
Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot 
My soul's full meaning into future years, 
That they should lend it utterance, and salute 
Love that endures, from Life that disappears! 

[45] 




bonnet from ttye pottu§um 



XLII. 

T future will not copy fair my past" — 
I wrote that once; and thinking at my 
side 

My ministering life-angel justified 
The word by his appealing look upcast 
To the white throne of God, I turned at last, 
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied 
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried 
By natural ills, received the comfort fast, 
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff 
Gave out green leaves with morning dews im- 

pearled. 
I seek no copy now of life's first half: 
Leave here the pages with long musing curled 
And write me new my future's epigraph, 
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world I 



[46] 



bonnets from t^e ^ottuguege 



XLIII. 

BOW do I love thee? Let me count the 
ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 
height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of everyday's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, — I love with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



[47] 



^onnetg from t^e pottu%\xz$t 



© 



XLIV. 

ELOVED, thou hast brought me many 
flowers 
Plucked in the garden, all the summer 
through 
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew 
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers. 
So, in the like name of that love of ours, 
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, 
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew 
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and 

bowers 
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine, 
Here's ivy! — take them, as I used to do 
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not 

pine. 
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, 
And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine. 

[48] 



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